Others Can Say It Better Than I
by Dreaming-Of-A-Nightmare
Summary: Drabbles inspired by quotes from a deck of 'friendship and love' card set. Virgil/Richie friendship and slash. .:. One, Laughter. Two, Stay. Three, Smiles. Four, Better Than One. Five, Mathematical. .:. Rated T for any content that might be written.
1. One: Laughter

**One.**

_"Laughter is the shortest distance between two people."  
__~Victor Borge~_

They couldn't stop laughing.

The squirrelly energy zipped through them, their cheeks growing painfully tired from grinning and their breath coming short as the spasms in their chests didn't subside. The laughter grew, in fact, to tweak their eyes with the start of tears, and pinch their sides with the ache of laughing so hard.

But they couldn't stop.

And it's not even that what happened was overly hilarious; in fact, it was barely above 'funny', and yet with the timing, it couldn't have been more amusing. So they laughed, and kept laughing, and didn't know how to stop. One look at the other's face would send another wave of crushing hysterics, and one breathless attempt at stopping made a squeaking noise that created yet another bout of insane giggling.

Slowly, they fell into one another, shoulders bumping and heads lolling onto chests and hands slapping knees or holding sides.

Eventually, the laughter died and tears were wiped from opening eyes and breaths were caught, hearts slowly to a normal pace.

"Man, V, I haven't laughed that much in ages," the blond of the two said with a lingering smile. He opened his jaw to stretch his cheeks to cease their dull aching. "Who would've thought something like Sweeney Todd could make us laugh so hard? This is supposed to be a horror/tragedy!"

"Dude, I swear it was the way Mrs. Lovett said, 'No you don't' while squashing a cockroach with a rolling pin is what made us laugh. It's just so, I dunno, out of place in this gloomy London scene," the brunet answered. They had to pause the movie, Mrs. Lovett frozen while kneading dough. "Then again, this entire song is outta place. It sounds so… happy."

"I know, right? It's like they want us to laugh in the beginning before all the killing." He paused to fling a popcorn kernel in his mouth. He caught it with his tongue. "Why did we rent this movie, again?"

"Stress relief?" the other guessed as he shrugged his shoulders noncommittally. He reached into his friend's lap and dug out a handful of popcorn, salty butter coating his fingers. He shoved the entire bite in. "Anyway, Rich, we better play it before the DVD gets wrecked or something. It's been on pause for a while now."

"You're thinking of VHS tapes getting wrecked," the other corrected. "And I'm way ahead of you." He pressed the play button on the remote, and within seconds, the laughter started up all over again. This time, it was because of Johnny Depp's face when he tasted the crusty, dusty pie and had to wash it down with ale.


	2. Two: Stay

**Two.**

_"'Stay' is a charming word in a friend's vocabulary."  
__~Louisa May Alcott~_

Reach out, end up grabbing the air. Try again, finally grab a sleeve. Need him. I need him here. Open my mouth, try to speak. Don't know which words to use. Can't tell him how much I'm hurting. Can't show him how weak I truly am. Don't want him to know that he's always been the strongest.

Asks me, 'what is it, what do I want?' Want to tell him that I don't want, I need. Can't tell him what I regret. Regret saying that I hated my dad. Never meant it, even if I ran away afterwards. Even if I hugged him in the end, I never said sorry. Don't want to tell him that my asshole father actually meant something to me. But he was my dad. Of 'course he meant something. Can't let Virgil know, though.

Been at odds with my dad lately. Not me, him. Virgil. Been mad at my dad for drinking and saying shit to me. Makes Virgil angry. He thought my dad changed. Turns out he didn't. And now he's dead. Gone. My dad is dead. Car accident, like so many others. So many other drunks. Why? Why so stereotypical? He was my dad. But I'm furious at his stupidity. Wish I could've told him sorry, wish I could've been there for him so he wouldn't drink.

Find the words. Utter them softly. "Please stay," I say. That's it, only two words.

Virgil hears. Stoops down, cups my face in his hand. Runs a thumb over my lips. Tells me to stop crying, but I'm not crying. There are no tears, just emptiness. I tell him this. He smiles, tries to get my attention. It works. I look up.

"Then why are your shoulders shakin', Rich?"

Can't let him know. Don't want him to think that I miss my racist, homophobic, alcoholic father. Don't want him to know that I hate myself for being everything my father hates, as if rebelling. My best friend is black. I'm in love with him. I hate alcohol and dump it down the drain if I find it. My dad hated all of that, and knew it all just by watching. Always watching. Like a hawk. I hated it. But I couldn't hate him, not really. Can't say this, though. Can't admit my pain. Just want Virgil to stay. Stay with me, maybe hold me if I don't do anything stupid. He doesn't know that I love him. He doesn't notice how my cheeks are flaring red not because I'm crying, but because he's touching me. My face. My lips. Dry pad of his thumb, close enough to kiss. Want to, but hurting too bad. Shrink in on myself instead.

"Richie…" he says softly, so sweetly, always caring. Virgil loves me, too, but not the way I love him. He cares, but not the way that I care. It's enough that he stays, though. Enough that he came over to my house, even if Mom is going crazy. She was under dad's belt, the notches closing in around her neck like a noose. But she loved him, so she toughed it out. She didn't care that he was smothering her with his habits and ways. My grandma never knew why she bothered with him. But Mom is strong. Wish I was as strong. "C'mere, man," Virgil whispers, breaking my thoughts.

I stare at him. So gentle. So strong. Different strength than my mom, though. Hero strength. Self-sacrificing strength, even counting in the bouts of teen ego. Love him. Love him so much, makes the pain ache more. But in a positive way.

Scoot closer, like he orders. Hugs me. Friendly, concerned. Loving, but not romantic. Wish it was. Wish I could bleed my heart out to him. Can't. Mom knows, always known that I was gay, but never asked if it was because of Virgil. Dunno if he started it, dunno if it was always there. Don't care either way. Just know that he's here for me. Staying, like I pleaded. Feel safe with him. Feel comfortable. Love him so much…

"It'll be okay, Richie," he says. Doesn't let go of me. Makes me feel warm inside. Cling tighter, not caring if he notices, nor if he realizes why. Just want to not hurt anymore. He must notice the tightness; he starts stroking my hair, smoothing it down. Ruffled from bawling earlier, before he came over. Trying to fix it. Trying to fix me. Dunno if I can be fixed, but I want to be. He can do it. He's not just Static the hero, he's my personal hero. Always been there for me. Try to be always there for him.

"Stay," I repeat. Choking on words. Meant to say, 'stay the night'. Need him by me, else I won't sleep. Wonder if he knows that.

Must, 'cause he nods. "Okay. I'll call my dad later and tell him to being over my stuff."

Always has a bag packed for unexpected sleepovers. I have one, too. We never know when we'll plan one, so we're always ready. Wonder if Virgil realizes how close that makes us. Must not, 'cause he's so casual about it.

"I never said sorry, but I am sorry. I won't lie, 'cause I didn't like your dad, but that doesn't mean that I'm happy he's gone. I know this is hard for you, and that it's sudden." Pauses. He grabs a tissue, lets me blow my nose. No tears, just snot. Weird. "When you called, I was afraid for you, Rich. You sounded so… broken. I didn't like it. It cut me deep, bro, hearin' you sound like that."

So glad he understands. Not so glad that he knows I'm broke. Don't want to be broke.n Want to be whole, strong. Like him. But when his mom died, he was worse than this. Was cold, distant. Stony. Dead inside and out, after he cried. Scared me. Think I helped him through it, never sure if I made a difference or not. Want to ask. Wonder if it's too personal.

But we're best friends; everything is personal.

"V," I murmur, "Did I help you when your mom died like how you're helping me now?" Stupid, childish, but I need to know. Need to know if I'm his hero, too.

Smiles, big and warm. Still holding me, just a little. His hands on my forearms. Feels warm. Looks into my eyes. Glasses are gone; took 'em off hours ago when we got the news 'bout my dad. Virgil's voice caresses my numb brain. "If I'm helping you at all like how you did when my mom died, then I know I'm doin' alright. I was worried that I couldn't help you as much as you helped me."

"Really?"

"Really." Touches my face again. Wonder why he keeps doing that. Not normal for him. Normally he touches my shoulders, bumps fists. Once or twice touched my chest, a poke or a shake or a halt. Never touched my face. Feels nice, but can't let him know that. Tempted to turn my face out of his hand, afraid he'll figure out that I'm blushing.

Leans in without warning. I blink. His lips graze my cheek. Whispers in my ear that my dad wasn't a bad guy, that he's somewhere better. Need to believe him to feel less guilty, not sure if I can. Also need to ask why he's acting this way. Do. "Virg, what's your deal, man?" Pull away, feeling flustered. Can't let it show. Hope I'm not shooing him away. Still need him to stay.

"No deal, man. I'm just trying to reassure you."

Can tell he's lying. His lip twitches when he lies. Bring my legs up to my chest. "Thanks," I say. He leans in again. Electric fingers massaging my neck. Tingles. Feels good. Melting, arms letting go of knees. The ache fades. Feels like I can stop emitting silent sobs. Feels like I can start to heal.

Electric buzzing stops. Normal hands, warm hands. Heated by inner electric friction. Mental note: Virgil's great at massages. Vague curiosity as to why. Then remember: I rubbed his shoulders, too, when he was mourning. He thanked me later for it, said it took the edge off. Said it helped his tense muscles uncoil so he could sleep. Tense from crying. Like my own right now.

"Feeling better?" he asks. Eases me back into his arms. Realize that I'm sitting between his legs. Blush flares up again. Too relaxed and tired to pull away, though. "You can sleep," he says, locking his arms over my chest. So close. Never been this close to Virgil before. Want to panic and run. What if I slip up? What if this means nothing? Probably does. Probably doesn't mean that he loves me the same way after all. Probably is his attempt at comfort, nothing more.

Stutter, "Y-yeah." Close my eyes. Try to sleep instead of think. Feel Virgil's breath on my hair, rising and falling chest on my back. Warm, all so warm. Can feel his beating heart if I concentrate. My own heart races up a bit to catch up with his. Why is his beating so fast?

Get the answer in second. "I love you, Richie," he says firmly, like it's something I haven't been listening to and he wants me to hear. But not spoken unkindly; he means it in it's entirety.

Body goes numb. Want to burst out and ask which love he means. Want to sigh in relief. Want to kiss him. Don't do either of those. Just pretend to sleep.

He doesn't buy it. "I've pulled that fake-sleeping trick on you too many times not to spot it. So you have to answer me, Rich."

"I didn't know it was a question," I say smoothly. Heart bangs around in my throat. Suddenly wish I was a girl so a pair of breasts could muffle the beating. Sure that Virgil can hear it.

He laughs breathily. He's nervous. Thinks that I'm shrugging it off. I'm not. I'm just as nervous. Didn't know he loves me. So happy suddenly, thoughts of my dad gone. Not forgotten, just shoved aside. To make way for Virgil. "You know what I mean," he says.

Suck in air. Clench the carpet, feel it under my stubby fingernails. Virgil's grip around me loosens. His hands fall to either sides of his body. Stares over my shoulder at me. Timidly return the gaze, faces so close. Closer than when we argue. But now I see it: what arguing? It was never arguing. It was sexual tension. He's liked me a long time, but never showed it. Went on the defense by sticking closer to Frieda or Daisy. Was in denial. But he's showing it now.

Makes the tense feeling evaporate. Smile. "Then you should also know that I love you more than anything. I always have," I reply. Feel silly for wording it that way. Oddly enough, it doesn't do my feelings justice. We're in sync, he and I. We match. We're a dynamic superhero duo, but it goes beyond that. And my words don't express that eloquently. Wish I knew how to tell him my true feelings. But if four words (_"I love you, Richie"_) are enough, then maybe I've already said too much.

"Well, now that that's established," Virgil jokes, "Is it okay if I kiss you?"

Mind goes blank. Next thing I know, his hair is all around me in thick, dark tendrils. Hanging down, but bunched in back where my fingers are laced.

Forget everything, even my name. Don't remember why I was grieving. Don't remember that Virgil was ever 'nothing but a friend'. Only remember that he loves me, and can feel my love for him bleeding out like I remember wanting it to.

And I remember the word that started all of this: 'stay'. I now find it the most charming word in my vocabulary. Wonder idly if Virgil is thinking the same thing.


	3. Three: Smiles

**Three.**

_"Every time you smile at someone, it is an action of love, a gift to that person, a beautiful thing."  
__~Mother Teresa~_

They say a picture is worth a thousand words.

But what if it's not a drawn, or painted, or taken picture? What if it's merely a moment, or a memory of a moment? Does it still count?

Because, more often than not, Virgil finds himself thinking that each of Richie's smiles is worth a thousand words. Maybe more.

Because when Richie smiles, it can contain multiple means; it can be a shy grin, or a mischievous one. It can be a sad, sympathetic smile, or a happy-go-lucky one. It can be a cover up for pain, or sheer bliss. It can be a smirk of triumph, or a smile of admitting defeat. It can be a joking smile, or a comforting one. It can be a grin of devious intentions, or one of content mirth. It can be a wild grin of glee, or a timid smile of embarrassment.

Richie has so many smiles. And Virgil loves each and every one of them.

And it's funny, because unbeknownst to him, Virgil's smiles are the same in Richie's eyes.


	4. Four: Better Than One

**Four.**

_"Two are better than one, because they have good reward for their labor. For if they fall, one will lift up his companion."  
__~Ecclesiastes 4:9-10~_

It happened all the time. While on patrol, or during a battle, one of the teen heroes of Dakota would get knocked to the ground. They aren't perfect, they're only human, and they're still young and learning. It's only natural that they take a hit every once in a while.

But they good thing about being Dakota's finest duo was one effortless fact: they could back up the other.

If Static crashed from his disc being hit, Gear would swoop in and bring him back to his feet, all the while making sure that he didn't get hurt further.

"Hey Static, mind lending me a hand here?" Gear would say, and the process of watching each other's backs would continue. It would be Static's turn to swoop in, and he'd blast the enemy to protect his partner.

It was simply how they did things. They required the other in order to win, to survive. The other youth's presence was demanded, even outside of battle. And in the end, they will smile at each other, wipe the sweat from their brows, and retreat home with comfort that the other was within reach.


	5. Five: Mathematical

**Five.**

_"True friends are mathematical; they divide sorrows and multiply joys."  
__~Unknown~_

It's ironic how often math is used in everyday life, since half the time people complain that they hate math, and yet it's been done all around them. The counting down of a microwave as it cooks food, the adding of calories or points to a dieter, the subtraction of taxes on a paycheck, and so on. There are even jokes, like how 'sex is like math; first you subtract the clothes, then you add a bed, divide the legs, and hope you don't multiply.' It's immature, but essentially true. Yet there are other mathematical prospects in life, like friends.

Virgil knows this all too well. He doesn't need a super-brain like Richie to understand exactly how much like math friendship can be. He's seen long ago how Richie takes away his bad moods and tags on better ones in their place. He's noticed how Richie breaks apart whatever is dragging him down and sorts it out to comfort him. He's realized how Richie makes every moment ten times brighter than it was before.

The mocha teen grins. "Richie, would you think that I'm a dork if I started quoting math-based lines to express how much your friendship means to me?"

The blond chuckles. "I'd be insulted if you didn't, V." He points a finger in the air. "Plus, we're already both dorks, so I'd be a hypocrite for calling you one."

Virgil laughs with the other as he kicks back onto the couch beside him. "Good, 'cause I have a feeling that I'll be using a few soon. Other people can say it better than I ever could."

"I was joking, though. You don't need them to say it for you. I still know what you're getting at, even without you having to say it. I already know that you value our relationship; you've shown me countless times, so what's the point in saying so?" Richie shrugs as he leans back into the couch and flicks an M&M into the air. It's caught on his tongue, turning a dot of it green to math his shirt.

"True. But I have to say something once in a while to make sure that you know. Because if I don't, and one day something happens, I'd kick myself for never telling you how important you are to me. Half the stuff I do wouldn't have even happened without ya."

"Jeez, Virg, you're gonna make me blush," the other teases, but it's actually the truth. He ducks lower in the couch to hide the tell-tale pink springing up on his cheeks. "Can we rewind the movie? We missed a bunch of what they were sayin'."

The other laughs again. "Yeah, sure. Sorry. I'll shut up now."

And he does. But he keeps the author-unknown quote in mind for the future.


	6. Six: Song In My Heart

**Six.**

_"A friend hears the song in my heart and sings it to me when my memory fails."  
__~Pioneer Girls Leader Handbook~_

It's a dim melody, one that plays tragically yet beautifully within Virgil's skull. It's distant, and vague, and not always there. It takes on many forms; the song can be of a mother-centered memory, a grandmother-centered memory, or a memory of nothing important at all, like something that happened in school.

The tune constantly morphs to suit whatever Virgil is feeling or tries to remember. And when he fails to recall it, Richie somehow reads his mind and brings it up. It's amazing, really; it's like Virgil never loses anything forever, because Richie holds half of Virgil's heart inside of his own.


	7. Seven: When I'm With You

**Seven.**

_"I love you not only for what you are, but for what I am when I am with you."  
__~Unknown~_

Hands glided along his spine, descending languidly, adding drops of pressure to feel his muscles moving. He arched into the touch, reveling in the sensation of being caressed so lovingly, so greedily. When he was with the young African American man, nothing felt more stable or flawless. Everything was balanced and sure and came naturally, and brought to him the sense of security and perfection that nothing else could, not even the armor he wore or a new invention he created.

Those same hands snuck under his shirt, immediately dampened by the sweat forming at the small of his back. That did it. The raw contact of fingers on his skin sent an electric spike through him, washing his innards with a fire that scorched his heart and swam directly downwards into a pit below his waist. He didn't know if the electricity was his own lust or his lover's powers, but it mattered not to him. He adjusted his position, crawling out of the stronger boy's lap and pulling him on top. Their lips smashed together again, the other's being plump and moist and talented, trying to further teach the blond what one's lips were made to do.

It was beyond bliss, what Virgil made Richie feel. It was a sense of completion that made Richie feel as though he were at his best, even when his hormones were raging at their worst. It was a sense of acceptance he gave that Richie absorbed wholeheartedly, and returned.

It was unconditional as well, the love they provided for one another. It came at no cost and never left, and it started the day they met, despite the fact that they were no where near aware of it's existence.

As those hands became more demanding, peeling off clothing and traveling lower and lower, Richie was reminded of why, exactly, he loved Virgil: because through the joyous times and the painful ones, Virgil stuck by him and held him with the same care he could give to a fragile flower made of blown glass. Richie understood that Virgil was this way not because he thought Richie was incapable of protecting himself, but rather because he never wanted anything to happen to the one person that made his life worth living. And, more subtly, Richie protected Virgil, because the case was the same for him.

They would never find another. Theirs was a relationship meant to last, because they grew up together, and fought criminals together, and liked all the same things, and cracked the same humor, and consistently fixed their issues because they would sulk and grow unresponsive when they were apart during a fight.

The fire within Richie burst like a dam exploding. White-hot heat flowed through him, and he shuddered as goose bumps caused the hairs on his arms to rise. He held Virgil tighter, and Virgil gave him a soft smile, and returned the tightened embrace. And Richie found that there was no way he could stop the smile tugging on his own mouth, one that was magnified to glow twice as much as the one Virgil gave.


	8. Eight: Brother

**Eight.**

_"A friend that is near is better than a brother that is far."  
__~Proverbs 27:10~_

Richie didn't know what it was like to have siblings. Not sisters (although he had a good idea because of Sharon), not brothers, not even extremely close cousins. And though he called Virgil 'bro', and the term was reciprocated, it was more slang than anything else. Like saying 'hommie' or 'dude' or 'man'. Still, he found that he didn't mind not having siblings. Without them, it might get a tad lonely now and again if he was home alone, but with them he'd probably be just as annoyed as everyone else. Besides, he had Virgil for those lonely moments. Why else have a phone and Shock Vox if he can't call the other teen repeatedly to fill the lonely gap?

Somehow, knowing that there was his friend nearby as opposed to a nonexistence sister or brother gave Richie the utmost sense of never being alone.


	9. Nine: Coming Home

**Nine.**

_"We need to have people who mean something to us; people to whom we turn, knowing that being with them is coming home."  
__~Bernard Cooke~_

Empty space lingered all around them, suffocating in it's deaf, dark silence and lack of color. Trips with the Justice League into the far reaches of the Milky Way galaxy always left a sorrowful hole in the depth of Static's heart. Light-years away from Earth, from Pops and Sharon and his brother-in-law Adam, light-years from the city of Dakota. It hurt, because on some of these trips, Static didn't know if he was going to make it back alive.

"I love these trips! It feels like we're on the Enterprise, soaring across the universe! It's awesome," Gear chimed in as he came to lie beside his partner (in more than one meaning of the word).

"How can you say that?" Static grumbled. "Don't you get homesick? – Miss your mother? Father?"

His blond companion shrugged as he flipped open the green visor of his helmet. "Sure, I miss them. They're my parents. But the home is where the heart is, and my heart is with you, V. So I don't get homesick; I come home every time I come to see you."

The dark-skinned young man stared at the other for a moment, his head tilted and eyes soft as he considered these words. Smiling, he bent over to place a chaste kiss on the paler man's cheek. "You know, you have a point, Rich. I like the idea of that; makes me feel less lonely."


	10. Ten: No Words

**Ten.**

_"Friendship is indeed genuine when two friends, without speaking a word to each other, can nevertheless find happiness in being together."  
__~George Ebers~_

We fly side by side, and not a word is shared between us. But it's alright; I'm just enjoying the smell of the night and city life, cool and a little dirty, but familiar. Beside me, I'm sure he's doing the same, albeit also pondering away about some new project idea or another. He always has ideas, and it's convenient, because a majority of them are used to help our crime fighting.

I smile at him, and under the shield over his face, I ca see him return the grin. We don't even need to say anything to know what the other is thinking, feeling. We simply know. It's this weird in-tune thing we have, a sort of connection that's existed since I can remember. It's nice, because it means that I don't have to express what I want or need on a regular basis. Sometimes all it takes is a certain type of silence or facial movement or hand gesture, and he'll understand completely. I love this about our relationship.

Flying down to land on a roof and take a short break in our patrol, we sit with our backs against an empty window and stare up at the misty half-moon above our heads. Wordlessly, I shift to rest my head on the cold glass, but let it roll to the side to lay on Richie's shoulder. He doesn't mind, never has. He's war compared to the spring evening, and I close my eyes. How late is it, I wonder?

Somehow thinking the same thing, Richie holds up his watch. I feel the action and open my eyes to take a quick glance. As I lift my head to look, Richie brings the watch closer to me, and I read the digital numbers: eleven fifty-two. We should be getting home soon, lest we want to get caught not sleeping in our beds.

But I'm too content where I am to move. It's better here, with Richie, in the open night air. I like the silence, like the warmth. It's soothing. But Richie's sighing, which is a sign that he knows all too well how I feel. I stand, unfold my disc, and offer a hand to pull the blond to his feet.

Quietly, we slip through the night and return home without making a sound. But it's being together, facing all odds, which matters most.


	11. Eleven: Precious

**A/N: Static Shock comic book reference. But nothing that couldn't actually end up happening in the cartoon, I suppose. If, y'know, you don't account for what happened to Hotstreak and Ebon in the last episode. Or if you pretend it happened prior to that. Or something...**

* * *

**Eleven.**

_"A friend is a precious possession whose value increases with the years. Someone who doesn't forsake us when a difficult moment appears."  
__~Henry Van Dyke~_

They've been through so much, and in such a few amount of years. Through high school alone – freshman year to senior year – they became Metahuman superheroes and faced more foes and trials and tribulations in both fighting the bad guys and personal relations to account for a lifetime.

And in college, it seemed, everything was at war with them. They joined the Justice League, Richie went to work for Wayne Enterprises, they got a dorm together at a very prestigious college in the northeast (both there on a science scholarship), and went through a dozen dates each, Virgil's being female and Richie's being male. The latter incident started in high school, and was an uproar, because there was a rally and an angry Hotstreak and harassment and confusion and pain and finally, resolve.

Secretly, the confusion and pain on Virgil's end had been because he was afraid of being 'guilty by association', as he explained to Frieda. Deep down, he was afraid that the possible accusations would be somewhat true, because as much as he didn't want to admit it, Virgil found certain guys attractive. Namely the gay friend in question. But he kept these things to himself, for as long as he could. Which was a long, long time.

Through this entire time period of about thirteen years – ages fourteen to twenty-seven – their friendship only grew, because as the tougher things came and went, they still stuck by one another, and accepted the bad with the good.

In all the times that they nearly lost each other due to some villainous plot or another, Virgil and Richie found that they were becoming more and more precious to one another. They couldn't understand why, because they thought it was merely the years of being together that produced such protective nature of one another. But it could be something more. They weren't sure. It wasn't safe to venture out of the box, and the box was that they were merely friends, nothing more. Ever.

And yet, they couldn't help but wonder on off times to themselves what might change if they attempted something different. They doubted they would ever act on these thoughts, however; the risk of losing their tight bond due to awkwardness or something else always got in the way. Plus, if an enemy ever discovered that their partnership was actually **that **sort of "partnership"… well, it only proved even further the dangers that came with taking a chance.

It comforted them, though, to know that no matter what happened, the other would never abandon them, or blame them. They've had too many occurrences in their combined past to stir any type of grudge. They know all the worst in each other, and all the best. The years have shown them that.

But have the years dared show them what a great benefit it would be to take their friendship and shove it aside to make way for something more?

Perhaps not yet.

Eventually.


	12. Twelve: You Don't

**Twelve.**

_"Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always hopes, and always preserves."  
__~1 Corinthians 13:6-7~_

You don't see how much you mean to him.

You don't question the reasoning behind why you guard him at all costs.

You don't notice the glimmer of anticipation in his eye every time you touch him in the smallest of ways.

You don't stop to think about how your fights with him constantly get resolved, only care that they do, because even you know that you have to keep your relationship with him alive through the years, and not solely because you visited the future and saw that you two were still partners against crime.

You don't seem to care that the feelings for you he hides can be seen by some as a sin.

You don't hear the truth in his words when he replies to your joking, 'Haha, man, I just love you, Rich,' with a soft, 'I love you, too, V.'

You don't even fully understand what, exactly, it is that he stirs in you.

But…

You do, however, see how much he means to you.

You do, however, question the reasoning behind why he guards you so strongly in return.

You do, however, notice the spark of electricity that warms you every time you touch him, and notice that it's your powers again, yes, but they are reacting to your emotions.

You do, however, stop to think about how your fights with him came to be, and how much they hurt, because you both know each other so well that you can hit all the right weak points to make the other break down, and you stop to think about how miserable it makes you.

You do, however, seem to care that he hides something from you, and constantly try to get to the bottom of it by confronting him.

You do, however, sense the relevance in his reply to your teasing, and sense the truth in the smile you send him after he returns the sentiment.

You do, however, understand that he is part of you, and that you care for him, even if you're beginning to grow unsure as to what extent.

Because there is something there, and you're secretly searching for it, although he tries his best not to let you find it for fear of losing you.

You would never allow it, though.

Because you fear losing him, too.


	13. Thirteen: Fragrant Memories

**Thirteen.**

_"Friendship delights the heart with sweet and fragrant memories of shared laughter and love."  
__~Unknown~_

Thin words leak from my mouth, meant to be comforting. It nearly works, because he smiles at me, but it's not the same. His lips are closed and his eyes still look sad. So I clamp my hand over his in a friendly gesture, hoping he knows that I understand what he's going through, because I know what it's like to feel helpless; after all, I'm not the one with the helpful, physical powers. I know all too well, that heavy, sick feeling of being useless. It's a little different of a scenario this time around, but the feeling is the same.

Time passes. I'm here again, by his side, like I usually am. This time, we're snickering in front of the fountain inside the mall, poking fun at Frieda and Daisy as they gush all over the hot new band playing, a local group from our old high school. We're older now, in college, but we still act mostly the same around each other. The four of us are a tight-knit group, have been since our junior year. It's a warm feeling, being here. I like the atmosphere, and this small moment in time, as silly as it is. To me, this is happiness.

A year goes by. Now I'm alone, huddling over my workbench, trying to sort out a glitch in the security system I created for the gas station. My partner is out on patrol without me, but it doesn't matter. I have a couple small things to keep my company, like Backpack and the gentle murmur of memories playing in the background thoughts of my mind. It makes me smile to myself, because I know that I have such a promising friendship with the other superhero. And it's funny, because every time I think of him, another shared moment rises from the depths of my heart in vivid detail, to the point where I can almost smell his scent and hear his voice, even if he's no where near me. And it fills me with a peculiar sensation I'm coming to know all too well.

And I think to myself, 'Yeah, this is going to last, whatever this is.' I want to think that it's love, but the word doesn't seem to fit, because the love between Virgil and me is something that doesn't have a name, because it's not romantic, or family-based, or friendly, or direct. It's subtle, and never-ending, and as mutual as sharing a soul would be.

As V steps in from his patrolling, thirsty and breathless, I turn to him and listen as he relays recent information, plops down beside our college textbooks on the couch, and guzzles down an entire bottle of water. He then continues to bring up an ever-present topic: What memories are we going to make this week?

I shrug. "Dunno," I answer mildly as I return to my work, lighthearted thoughts playing in my skull. "But what ever we do, Virg, it'll be awesome simply because we'll be doing it together."


	14. Fourteen: Support

**Fourteen.**

_"You believe in my dreams, you encourage me to reach further than I ever thought I could, you celebrate my joys and feel my sorrows. You are dear to me."  
__~Unknown~_

'Hey, man… You could be a superhero!'

'Uh, not your best look, chicken legs.'

'Come on, you can do it, V!'

'Yeah, alright! Way to go!'

'I see why you didn't want to look at this; she was so great, and now she's… gone.'

'Let's go. Together.'

--

It's all there, everything.

The way he made me see my potential as Static, the way he supports me, the way he guides me when I need it most, the way he lends me a hand, the way he congratulates me, the way he understands my pain, and the way he stands by me in a crisis; it's all signs about how great an impact Richie has left on my life, and continues to leave an impact. They're signs of how different my life would be without him.

Somehow, it's like he was meant to be there for me, with me, beside me. It's like he was supposed to meet me all those years ago, and I was supposed to reach out and befriend him.

But it goes a bit deeper than that, doesn't it? It's like Richie means more to me than a friend.

He's… dear to me.

And I would be lost without him.


	15. Fifteen: I Can See That You're Lovers

**A/N: This is NOT AT ALL where I was expecting this drabble to go, based on the quote; and yet this is what I got when I started writing. Hmm, go figure. XD**

**

* * *

**

**Fifteen.**

_"What is a lover? Someone who holds a special place in your heart, puts a special smile on your lips, and whispers a special word in your dreams."  
~Unknown~_

You don't think I see it, Virgil Hawkins, but I do. I'm all too aware of where you stand in your relationship with Foley. Don't even try to deny it, bub; because I may be a girl, but I'm not dense, and I'm certainly no pushover!

_[Aggravated sigh.] _You thought you were hiding it pretty well, huh? The touches. The tender tone. The smiles. The glances. But I can see through your little cover-ups; I know what feelings truly lurk there. You even tried to hide it from yourself for a while by flirting with me, and trying to date me; but I saw through your guise once I came out of my silly lovesick stupor. And don't look at me like that! I know it's not real. You're not actually sorry for using me to protect yourself; I can see it in your eyes – richly brown eyes, nearly black, ones I loved so much – that you're glad that you had me to use, because it only helped you see clearer who you truly wanted.

You're despicable, Virgil. _[Cuts him off.]_And no, I will _not _be reasonable! Because _you_ weren't! _[Chokes back tears.] _All you did was go on and on about him while we were out the last few times. That's what tipped me off the most, you know. The, 'Oh, you won't believe what _Richie_ invented this time, Daisy!' The, 'Oh, you'll never guess what _Richie _and I did this weekend, Daisy!' And the, 'Oh, Daisy, I have to cancel our plans after all because something came up and _Richie needs me._'

_[Clearly not fighting the sobs any longer.] _But what about when _I _need you? And don't try to tell me what I don't understand, because I do more than you realize. _[Broken sigh and wiping tears.] _Look, I know what some of those times you're actually making an excuse to leave because you're Static. – _Yes,_ I figured it out, Mr. Superhero. Frieda and I had our suspicions, but they were only confirmed when I put two and two together that Richie was Gear. And if he was Gear, I know that you just _had _to be Static.

And what d'ya mean, how did I figure out Richie was Gear? Come on, Virgil, it's not that hard. Not only does he _sound _and _talk _and _act _like Richie, but he has blond hair and a black hoop ear piercing. I saw it on TV during one of the zoom-ins. Plus, that backpack Gear wears… I saw it in Richie's locker once, the same one. And I _know _they don't sell those kinds of things in stores, or online.

But I don't care about any of that. I don't. I think it's great that you want to help people, and do, and save their lives as well as put the baddies away. But what's got me so steamed up is that you _went through me_ to get to your own hidden desires. You know, half the time I wonder if maybe it was all on purpose, like you were trying to make Richie jealous of us just so he'd come to you first. And I bet he did, didn't he? Because I always knew he loved you. I could see it more than you would, at the time.

How'd I know, you ask? Tch, how can any girl not see it? You're the only person that makes him smile like that, makes him glow and laugh and relax. I was the same way around you, if you cared to notice. We both loved you, and then you made your choice. And I hope you're happy, Virgil Hawkins, I sincerely hope you are.

Yes, I'm being serious, you idiot! I might be hurt, but I still care about your well-being. Because, you know, it would kill me if he ever broke your heart. It would kill me to know that I could've saved you the pain. But I get the feeling that I won't have to worry about any of that, and I have to say, it makes me a little sad, and angry, and content all at the same time.

But whatever. It's all the same to you, how I feel; isn't it? …No? Well, it's not like you can fix it, or change anything. What is, is. And there's nothing I, or anyone else, can do about it.

_[Sigh.] _You should go. I'm done reaming you. And I'm sorry, because this definitely marks the end of our friendship, but we're going to college next month anyhow, so it's a moot point. Just… go to Richie and leave me alone.

_[Pauses as she listens to him mumble a request.] _Not tell anyone about you two? Yeah, I can do that. I mean, it's not like people are widely accepting of gays, anyway. _[Another pause to listen.] _…Oh, you meant your secret identities. Humph, well, those are safe with me; I didn't even tell Frieda, and don't worry, I won't be telling her at all in the near future. She has too loud of a mouth to be trusted with information like that. _[One last sigh.] _Yeah, yeah, you're welcome, I guess. Now goodbye, Virgil. And don't bother calling me or anything; I _won't_ answer.


	16. Sixteen: Greatest Happiness

**Sixteen.**

_"The greatest happiness in life is the conviction that someone loves us because of ourselves, or rather, loves us in spite of ourselves."_  
_~Victor Hugo~_

Have you ever got the feeling that someone you know accepts every last thing about you, despite what kind of flaw it might be?

Someone who accepts you completely, even if you can get cocky and arrogant, even if you can push their buttons with annoying actions, even if you make disgusting jokes, even if you bite your nails, even if you hog the pizza, even if you drink all their soda when you're over at their house, and even if you sometimes forget to return the things you borrow from them.

And they even accept you when you diss your own pimples and flared nostrils and chapped lips and slightly uneven teeth and boring brown eyes and bushy eyebrows and hairless chest and chalky skin. They don't care about your minor flaws, in both your personality and appearance, because they love you for who you are and wouldn't change you for the world.

And to have someone who sticks by you that loyally, and believes in you so faithfully, and cares about you that deeply… it's hard not to get drawn in yourself. It's hard not to look at them one day and think, _Wow, I might have found my soul mate._

Because I'm not the type of person who gets a clue very quickly, unless the clue is about what a criminal is up to. And I'm not the type of person to seek out personal matters, especially those of the heart. It hurts too much, because when I think of those close to me, I think of my annoying sister Sharon and my understanding father Robert and my caring (although my mind insists using the adjective, 'deceased') mother Jean. It's the last person that hurts and yet pops up first in my mind. I don't think anyone deals well with losing a parent, least of all the parent that gave birth to them. But I don't know, it hurt me a ton more than I thought possible.

Now I see, though, that I'm slowly making the person who accepts me the most ache inside. I'm bringing them a different kind of hurt; pain of the unrequited variety. And all because I keep chasing random girls and distracting myself with superhero work, disabling my clarity of the gift set right before my eyes.

And that gift is a person who, through it all, has been everything I described. They're everything I could ever need, and while I'm sitting here in our hideout, watching that person nap on the nubby, worn sofa, I see what I've been missing. I suddenly get the thought about soul mates and him being the only person I see next to me in my future, and then the matters of the heart that I've been so worried about become less unnerving, and I feel a smile tug at my lips.

So I walk over, happier than I've been in ages, and bend down to take off his glasses and set them next to his hand. And I brush back his golden yellow bangs from his brow to sweep them from his closed eyes. Timidly I trail my thumb along his jaw, fingers curling underneath as the knuckles graze the underside of his chin. I never noticed how peaceful he looks when he sleeps, when all the buzzing thoughts are gone from his consciousness…

I also never thought to touch him like this. For so long, he's just been my bro, my hommie, someone I hang with and talk to and battle alongside of. But upon doing so, I find his skin soft and covered in peach fuzz, and warm against my hand. I realize just how much I want to keep touching his skin, and know that it's not the type of thing you feel for a brother or friend or sidekick – I mean, partner. Thinking on it, I also realize how little I would have and how bland I would be if I didn't have him, and I notice that even though he has his flaws, too, I accept them and like them because they're charming, even when we're fighting.

And I understand, finally, that I can return his feelings for me, because in the base of my brain and in the depths of my heart, I somehow always knew that someday I would. Because, honestly, with all the times I've looked his way, I've felt something spark in me, even before I got my electric powers. …And some say that there's no such thing as chemistry between people. Ha.

As my hands stops to rest on his shoulder, after following the curve of his neck, I give him a teeny squeeze. I sit down by his stomach, where there's room for me on the small couch. Being the cheesy guy that I am (I mean, I made up my own catch phrase based off of an old Billy Idol song for crying out loud), I whisper to him while he sleeps, "I love you, Rich."

I tense and remove my hands as his head lifts, dark pupils dilating to adjust to the light as Richie stares at me with a knowing grin split on his face. He yawns, then states playfully, "Took you long enough, V."

I frown, tempted to smack him or make a witty retort, but change my mind at the last second to lean over and kiss him instead. I've never kissed anyone before, not really on the lips anyway, which is pathetic since I'm six-freaking-teen. And Richie's breath smells vaguely of morning-breath from napping with his mouth slightly agape, but it's not bad, and his lips feel so smooth and heated on mine that I choose to ignore it.

And I couldn't be happier than this, because this is at my happiest, right here, kissing my (male) best friend. So I just discovered the final part of myself, which could be seen as another flaw: I'm a guy who has fallen for another guy. But I know Richie already accepts this, and my family probably will too, so it doesn't hurt to hide it any longer.


	17. Seventeen: We Are Born To Learn To Love

**Seventeen.**

_"The good for which we are born into this world is so that we may learn to love."  
__~George MacDonald~_

Sometimes people wonder what they are put on this Earth for. They ask themselves what their purpose is, and question God about why they're living here. A few rare people know what they are meant to do: be teachers, be doctors, be superheroes… Okay, so perhaps the last thing only happens once in a blue moon and in comic books, but it's true nonetheless.

However, it takes a lot for one to realize what good they are born into this world for. And yet each and every human being is placed here to learn one lesson in life, if nothing else: and that would be to love.

Sadly, not everyone gets every type of love taught to them. Some merely know the love of family or friendship, or for their child. But some are lucky enough to know more than one of those kinds of love, or are lucky enough to know the richest form of love: romantic.

Now, I'm not really the sort of person who thinks about these things often, but my mind does work so quickly that I run out of other things to preoccupy it with, and am forced to look at random books and find quotes about love and get tied up in a thought process like this one.

Stupid George MacDonald, whoever he is. His stupid quote won't get out of my photographic memory oriented mind, and now I'm stuck pondering the aspects of love and friendship.

Bah. It's all so philosophical and heart-wrenching and complex. And annoying. Yeah, mostly annoying. But what else is there to think about, once you've read something that meaningful and true? Because it is, as much as I don't want to admit it with the mood I'm in at the moment. Whatever; I just wish my brain would stop thinking so much once in a while. Because, honestly, I don't want to think about learning to love.

Why, you ask? Simple answer, that: it's because I've already learned how to love, and be loved. And it hurts.

Really feck'n _hurts_, because the love I get back isn't as… (what was the word I used earlier? 'Rich'? Ha. Like my nickname) …rich as the love I return subtly. The love I give is tenderly affectionate, but the type I get is friendly and lightly brotherly. It bothers me, because it's like an irksome itch that can't be scratched, like that one spot on your back by your shoulder-blade that is too high to reach one way but too low to reach the other way, perfectly in the middle of your upper back, precisely where your nails can't get in touch with. Yeah, so I'm going a bit too into detail with the metaphor, for you get what I mean, right?

Anyway, point is, everyone learns to love. But a lot of people, in the process, also learn to lose. They lose someone precious to them, or they lose themselves, or they lose their hope. Because, seriously, if you loved someone for, say, eight years, and they never returned it, you'd get a little downhearted about them ever loving you back in the same way, wouldn't you? And, also saying this hypothetically, if you saw them go through dozens of bad relationships with all sorts of girls, each new one having a personality closer and closer to your own, wouldn't you get a little more hopeless about the person you love getting the hint that what they truly want is right in front of them, beside them, nearby no matter what?

I swear, it's like a bad soap opera (er, not that I watch any or anything… I'm not _that _much of a sap), in which the best friend slash boy-next-door type is who the main character has been needing all along, an yet doesn't get with until the last episode of the series because it wraps up everything and then there's no more needed to be covered in the soap any longer. Whoa, what was a long sentence. Hmm, maybe I should use it for one of those fifty-sentence challenges on LiveJournal.

…

Focus, Richie. Focus. Get back on your little thought train before you have to jump into another project. Again.

So, where was I? Oh yeah: hypothetical chit-chat with myself. Let's see… Hmm. Perhaps I should stop being hypothetical and come out with it, and this time actually decide to do something; and not the subtle things like I've been doing, but rather something drastic. Ha, that should would be a nice change of pace. 'Psh, Richie Foley, _drastic?_ Are you kidding me?' No, folks, I'm not kidding. I need to do something about this. I've been in love with the same person since my freshman year of high school, and now I'm a college graduate from MIT with bachelor degrees in more than one subject (I really flew through college; I'm surprised my teachers could keep up with my super brain, which is a small fact I am actually proud of).

The person I'm in love with, however, hasn't a clue. And if he does have a clue, he sure as hell doesn't like showing it. He could be in denial, since he didn't really take my "coming out of the closet" stunt very well (at first), but as he got over it, I think he also got over a handful of thoughts that might have seriously helped me. Helped me confess, that is. Because I want to. Confess to him, I mean.

Oh, man… Even as I lie here on my bed in my apartment and run my fingers through my hair, I feel like I'm in way over my head. And I haven't even done anything yet! But what is it can I do? Somehow trick Virgil into going with me on a date-that-he-isn't-aware-is-a-date and then tell him over spaghetti and garlic bread and red wine that I love him? Gee, that'll go over fabulously. I might as well add my reasoning behind being so jealous of Daisy when we were in high school, and why I never dated anyone in college for very long.

I literally went on, what, six dates through all four years? And the longest time I went out with one of those guys was, what, three weeks? I'm pathetic. And the fact to prove it: I'm still a virgin. Yup, I didn't sleep with any of those guys, or do anything remotely sexual past making out. I felt too guilty. I felt like I was cheating on my best friend, even though he's only that: my best _friend. _

Ouch. Man, does that sting. I'm a pathetic gay virgin who's been in love with his best friend for a good third of his life. What the hell is wrong with me?! – Aside from being a Bang Baby.

"Jeez," I sigh to myself, the word barely above a whisper. It's time to stop thinking about all this love stuff. It's nothing but bullshit in the end, anyway. Who cares? Name one person.

Um, besides George MacDonald. Because apparently he cares about love; enough that he made up a whole famous quote-thing about it.

"Blahhh." I grumble aloud. I turn over on my bed and close my eyes. I don't plan on falling asleep like this, because my contacts are still in and I'm in my clothes on top of the covers and it's merely three in the afternoon on a Sunday, but there is no harm in shutting my weary eyelids for a tiny second.

**Ding-a-ling-a-linggg.**

"Or not," I harrumph under my breath as I reach for the phone on my bedside. It's rings again, and the caller ID pops up. I blink at the displayed name. "Think of the devil, and he shall call you," I snort. I answer it. "Hey, V."

"'S up, Rich?" the other replies, his sultry voice sounding in my ear. It's disgusting, because to me it sounds as pleasant and comforting as a familiar lullaby. "Wanna catch a matinee flick with me? There ain't much trouble 'round right now, so I fig're we can goof off a little," Virgil says, his tone cheery. It's funny how his speech patterns and slang haven't been altered very much since high school.

"Sure, what did you have in mind?" I ask, ever careful to keep my voice casual whenever he asks me out somewhere. I know it's not a date, it never ends up being one, so I make sure to keep the keen interest out of my tone. But there are times when I slip up, and I wonder if Virgil notices how excited I sound, like a girl going to the dance with her crush.

…Huh. There I go being pathetic again.

"I was thinking that new John Travolta flick, what's it called? The Taking of Phelm 123? It has the subway train being held up, y'know, in one of the few films where John's a bad guy? It looked like a pretty decent movie, from what I saw in he trailers. Unless, uh, you want to see something else? I'm up for whatever you wanna see, Rich." Virgil struggles, and it weird, because normally he's not like this on the phone.

"Phelm 123 sounds fine. I really don't care, V. What time?"

"Here, I have the website up right now… Phelm starts at four. So, like, in half an hour. If we wanna catch it, we should leave now. Want me to pick you up?" the electric superhero offers.

"If you wouldn't mind, kind sir," I reply in a forced British-butler voice. I fiddle with a loose thread on my comforter. "Be at my building lickety-split, yes? Well then, cheerio old chap."

Laughing, Virgil says goodbye and hangs up. But as I press the 'end' button on my cordless phone, I get the feeling that his laughter was a bit hysteric, like he was nervous. But what for? It's not as if, this time, we're actually going on a date. If that were true, he would've asked me to dinner, not a movie. And it would mean that he has beaten me to the tricking-my-friend-into-a-date plan.

"Tch." I click my tongue in annoyance with my thoughts. "I must be going crazy or something, because that's plain whack."

I hop off my bed and comb through my hair before adding a little styling gel and spiking it to the side. I check my contacts, making sure they aren't lopsided from resting my eyes, and then proceed to the door. I grab my jacket – a nice denim one Virg got me for Christmas two years ago – and shimmy it on. It's then that the doorbell rings, just as I had calculated (factoring in the probability of where he was in his home, how long it would take him to get into his car, and then the drive here; all in relevance to my dawdling. Some math that is, huh? How fortunate I am to be so smart).

Opening the door, I'm shocked to find Virgil dressed in his "Sunday best". And by "Sunday best", I mean him wearing a black suit jacket with a nice striped shirt (with red and blue and grey that coordinate nicely) over black jeans that hug him sexily without being too tight. He wears these kinds of things on dates, not to church, but "Sunday best" seemed an appropriate phrase seeing as how it's Sunday and he's dressed in his finest.

(And yes, at this point I am most definitely making sure to snap my jaw back in place after having it fall to my knees.)

I quickly blink away my staring and quirk an eyebrow while I let out a short quip to distract him from noticing. "What's with the getup? – Planning to sit next to some girl in the theatre and wow her with your cheesy pickup lines?"

I lock my door and stick my keys in my purposely-faded-and-hole-worn jeans. One of the rows of key teeth catch on a frayed hole near my left pocket. I tug at it, but only succeed in making the hole a bit bigger, exposing some of the fabric of my inner pocket and a little of the skin of my thigh. I look up in time to catch Virgil's eyes lingering on this problem before snapping into attention to respond to my joke. He smiles.

"Um, no, actually. I just felt like wearing this," he says. But it smells like a crafty lie to me.

I raise my eyebrow again. "Oh? And how come I find that hard to believe?" I retort as I adjust my shirt to cover the mistake on my jeans. It's a lime green sleeveless shirt made of polyester and a type of spandex, which makes it clingy and stretchy and soft all at the same time. It's one of my favorites, actually; it matches my jeans and denim jacket really well, and is good for picking up guys at the local gay bar. But mostly I like it because it feels like my Gear suit, and shows off my pectorals in the same manner as the suit does (which, I suppose, is the reason why it picks up guys so easily).

Virgil laughs again as we rush down the stairs toward the main entrance of the apartment building. "I guess I should know better than to lie around you, huh?"

"Got that right," I say. We push through the front doors and into the blinding sunlight. Virgil's car is parked right in front, a dark blue Nissan Altima, almost the same blue as his costume from our sophomore year of high school.

He clicks the remote on his keys, and the head- and taillights flash as the car unlocks, a curt beeping sound emitting from the hood. "I'm assuming that you call shotgun?"

I grin at his humor. "Like anyone else is going to take it?" I shoot back as I climb into the passenger's seat. Virgil walks around the front to hop into the driver's side.

"Well, if you hadn't jumped in right away, my imaginary friend George might've taken it," Virgil teases. He's using an old joke from middle school, back when everyone had an imaginary friend or small inanimate object named either Bob, Carl, or George. I laugh at the joke, but it's a bit forced because hearing the name George makes me think of that stupid quote about being on this Earth to learn to love.

"Well, if you don't get a move on soon, George and I are going to call a taxi in order to get to the movie on time."

Virgil pulls out of the parallel parking space. "Okay, okay, I'm goin', I'm goin'. Which reminds me: want to go grab dinner after this? The movie should be over by about six, and by then I'm sure well both be starved."

This is different. And a tad eerie, since I was just thinking to myself not long ago that this would be a date if he asked me out to dinner. But I'm sure it's nothing, just Virgil being Virgil. "Yeah, sure. We could try out that new German place that opened up down the street from the movie theatre. I heard they have the best bratwurst, like, ever. The kind soaked in beer before being grilled, and then served with sauerkraut. Of 'course," I add hastily, "You can order yours without the sauerkraut. I know you hate it. You have since you were a kid."

He nods. "Okay. Let's go there, then."

The remainder of the trip to the theatre is uneventful, one in which Virgil and I sing and rap along with the hit songs on the radio as we avoid the heavy traffic. When we get to the movie theatre and get out snacks, it's about three minutes until the movie starts, so we only end up seeing one preview, and it's for some new G.I. Joe flick, which is weird since I don't ever remember G.I. Joe being anything more than action figures and cartoons.

We sit in the first row, closest to the screen, like we always do. No one much likes those seats, because you have to crane your neck upwards a bit and cover your ears sometimes due to the loud speakers and tall screen. But it's more fun up front, and mostly everyone else is in the middle or in back, so they don't look at you, or care what you do.

Virgil places the popcorn container in his lap and his giant slushie between us. I rip open my Junior Mints, and trade a few for his Reese's Pieces. Peanut butter and mint don't exactly go together, but separately they're delicious. So we munch on a few as the movie finally begins, and I take a sip of Virgil's slushie, knowing he won't mind because we share drinks all the time.

Partway through the movie, it gets a bit intense and my candy is gone, but I still have the urge to gnaw on something. So I reach over the armrest between us to grab a handful of popcorn. Like usual, Virgil automatically senses me doing so and leans toward me a bit to give me a better angle, but this time it's a little different. He lifts the container and shoves it in my hands, almost as if he doesn't want me to accidentally touch him or something. Okay, so he's been a little less touchy-feely since I told him I was homosexual, but does he really have to do this right now?

Shrugging, I take the container and fish out a handful, promptly shoving it into my mouth. Salty, buttery kernels fill my senses and I merrily chop down on them while I feel Virgil fidget beside me. Swallowing and wiping my lips, I glance over at him, and wonder what his problem is. It's not unusual for him to get antsy during movies; there's even been a couple times when his behavior was due to his urge to go to the bathroom and yet his stubbornness to finish the film before he took care of business. During those times, I joked that he had a bladder of steel, like a camel.

But now he's looking at me warily, like he's trying to come to a decision about something, and not paying attention to the movie at all. I frown at him. "What's wrong, V-man?" I whisper under the roar of the film.

"Um…" He fidgets again. "Come to the bathroom with me for a sec."

"But we'll miss the movie –" I protest.

"We'll be back real fast, I promise. Just come along, okay?" he says, the flickering light of the movie reflecting like a candle flame in his eyes.

Slowly, I nod. "Uh… sure, I guess."

We get up, leaving our jackets and popcorn, and rush around the front of the screen and up the aisle to the doors. The bathrooms are right up the hall from us, near the main lobby. I follow Virgil, whom seems a tad anxious. Still frowning, I lag behind him as we enter the bathroom, which is completely deserted (since everyone else is watching some movie or another).

"So what's this all about, man?" I question him as I lean against the counter full of sinks. I rest my palms on the edge of it, my left thumb getting wet from a random puddle by the first sink bowl.

"Richie," Virgil says slowly, "Does this feel like a date to you?"

My frown returns, except with more puzzlement in it. "What're you talking about, V? We always do stuff like this. Er, well, we don't always go to dinner afterwards, and you don't always dress this… uh… nice, but that doesn't make it a date. We're just friends." As much as I wouldn't like us to be, we're still only friends. Friends and crime-fighting partners, but that second thing is all hush-hush. The sole people who know about that are Mr. Hawkins, Sharon, and my mother. Not my father; he left us before we could tell him, and all because the info about my gayness got leaked to him somehow. Apparently he couldn't stand living under the same roof as, using his words, "an effing queer-boy". I'm still resentful of that fact that it didn't matter that I was his son. But that's behind me now, and I got through it thanks to Virgil. Who, at the moment, is biting his lip and looking more and more boxed-in.

"Are we 'just friends', Rich? I mean… like… Frieda and Daisy teased us all the time about being 'closer than married folk', and Sharon always jokes that we're 'soul mates', and then I heard somewhere that sometimes friends turn into either the most awkward or happiest couples, and… _and…_" He sighs and runs a hand over his buzz-cut, which happened halfway through college when he decided to shave off his deadlocks and keep his hair shorter. He said it was less of a hassle, especially while fighting the baddies. "I dunno what to think anymore, Richie. I just had this lame idea that if I, ya know, tried to act like I liked you, maybe I could make up my mind, especially since, lately, no girl has been catchin' my eye, despite the fact that there have been plenty of hot girls passin' me by in public places, plenty of girls who looked like they wouldn't mind hangin' around me for a while. But I got thinking that I didn't want any flings or one night stands, I wanted somethin' real that I could hold on to. And I realized that the only person I've been able to hang on to at all is you." He looks at me for the first time since entering the bathroom, and my heart skips a beat with disquiet. "Listen, I don't want you gettin' the wrong idea; I'm not 'experimenting' or screwing with your sexuality, bro, honest. I care about you. But since I do, I need to know for sure what going on in your end. D'ya think we should try something, or not? Heh, I mean, are you even interested in me?"

Oh, my God. I didn't see that one coming, any of that. Or maybe I did, except I hadn't seen it happening so soon. But I can take this in stride, easy-peasy. I'm glad Virgil's such an honest guy, although I've surprised he had the guts to admit to all of that. I would expect him to get tongue-tied, or change the subject and say to 'forget I said anything', or to shrug or laugh it off. But I guess, after so many years of being around me and telling me just about everything, it made things a little easier for him. But not any less awkward, unfortunately.

"Interested in you?" I echo, a curt, breathless laugh hitching my tone. "Damn, Virg, if you even have to ask, then I think you need your head examined, because I've dropped way too many hints over the years for them to go unnoticed."

A lopsided grin grows on his face. "So you want to try something with me, then? A deeper relationship-type-thing?" he clarifies.

I sigh, but there's a wistful ring to it. A smile touches my lips. "I couldn't ask for more." I say simply.

The young mocha man grins broader, relief melting his tense features. "Awesome." He offers his elbow. "Shall we go finish our movie?"

"Yes, I think we shall," I comply as I take his arm, linking my elbow with his. We march back to where we came from, and although we missed a chunk of the storyline, it doesn't faze me, because at least now I can take solace in the fact that maybe George MacDonald's quote isn't so stupid after all.


	18. Eighteen: Understanding

**Eighteen.**

_"A friend is somebody who loves us with understanding as well as emotion."  
__~Robert Luis Stevenson~_

He gets me, ya know? He totally understands me, and proves it every time I need backup on something or can't express my thoughts in words. It's awesome, because I'm able to have someone like that as my best friend. Which, thinking on it, is probably the reason why he's my best friend and why no one else is. Richie's just like that. He's this empathetic guy who's real in-tune with the people around him, especially me. And it helps me big time, 'cause it saves me a lot of trouble. And gets me out of trouble, haha; trouble of** all **sorts. (Insert shudder here.)

But that aside, it's just nice to have him nearby. I hope that I can be there for him in the same way, and if not all the time, at least during the times that really count for the most. 'Cause I know I tend to get a little… uh… flaky, but I swear I care about him and want to support him in return! I'm not a jerk. I can't be, right? I'm freaking _Static_, who's a freaking _superhero_!


	19. Nineteen: Captivated Listener

**A/N: This one is a bit lame, sorry. Not the best quote to use, in retrospect. BUT the next installment of this series will be much better. It has to be; after all, number twenty will be the finale.**

* * *

**Nineteen.**

_"A friend is a person who listens intently while you say nothing."  
__~Unknown~_

He rambles on and on, saying nothing that you can begin to comprehend, but you listen anyway. Then he sits down beside you, tired, and falls into silence, yet you still listen. You listen intently, rapt by his very presence, because he means so much to you. You are a true friend, Virgil Hawkins; you know his voice by heart and even when you don't want to, you somehow hear and remember everything he ever says, despite how much you understand of it.

And for the record, Richie appreciates this about you.


	20. Twenty: Blessed Influence on a Soul

**Twenty.**

_"Blessed is the influence of one true loving soul on another."  
__~Victor Hugo~_

They say that peer pressure is a strong force; "friends" (note the imaginary air quotes around the word) can manipulate "friends" to drink, or smoke, or do drugs, or streak across a football game, or join a gang, or any number of things. But a majority of the human race forgets the imprint people make on one another in their lives, their personalities, their souls.

If you spend enough time with someone, you start to pick up their speech patterns, or hand gestures, or phrases. But part of this influence can burrow deeper than that; it can affect your mind, causing you to think like them, or deeper still in your heart, causing you to feel like them.

You'll begin finishing their sentences, or saying the same words along with them. You'll begin crying when they cry, even if you are across the city from them. Above all else, if they truly love you from the bottom of their soul, you will begin returning their feelings to the same extent that they provide toward you.

Knowing this as if it were common knowledge, Virgil sucks in air as sharply as a brand new vacuum cleaner through a narrow hose and prepares himself to confront his friend. But he won't use words; worse are overdone, and in the end, meaningless. Instead, he'll use actions, and knows that if Richie is as in tune with him as he thinks, then the message with be put aptly across.

"Hey, Rich," the mocha teen greets. He peers over Richie's shoulder, his chin hovering close enough to Richie's neck to feel his body heat. "Whatcha workin' on?"

"Something that will make lasers shoot out of my wristwatch. Why? Is there somethin' on your mind, V?" the blond replies swiftly, casually, simply. Too much so, in fact; it's as though he's unnerved by the close proximity of their faces.

Virgil leans away. "Yeah, there is, actually. Mind taking a short break?"

"Sure. I always have time for a little heart-to-heart chat. What's up?" he asks as he cleans his glasses on his white undershirt, the one beneath his new red-and-orange argyle sweater vest.

He rubs his hands together. His tongue darts out to lick his dry lips. This is it; he can't chicken out now. All he has to do is step forward and make his move… He only hopes that his breath doesn't smell nasty.

Slowly, cautiously (since he has the crazy notion that Richie will backhand him or something outrageous), the electric eighteen-year-old superhero brought his face close to the blond's, and covered Richie's parted lips with his own as he closes his eyes. There is a muffled squeak of surprise, and then Richie's mouth his moving, matching the movements made by Virgil. It's amazing, really; he never saw himself doing something like this to his best friend and gizmo-oriented partner. But it's pleasant in a unique way, so Virgil keeps going, mindful of their combined need to breathe.

When they separate, Richie is shocked beyond belief, but by the glimmer in his eyes, extremely joyful. He gets what Virgil is not-so-subtly hinting about, and he couldn't be more eager to respond.

"I'm glad you feel the same way, bro. I was gonna go insane if you didn't acknowledge it sooner or later."

"And by 'it', I assume you mean your influence on me?" But he doesn't need to ask or see the nod he gets to know the answer.


End file.
